


Bittersweet

by Pas_Cal



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pas_Cal/pseuds/Pas_Cal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been four years since the fall of the Soviet Union, and Russia has seemingly faded into the background. Always silent, always alone. America, frankly, is rather tired of it, and is determined to get something other than those bittersweet smiles out of him.It's the job of a hero to help others, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ally J.](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ally+J.).



**Bittersweet**

Russia is quiet during the meetings. He has been for quite some time now. What feels like years almost.

And it has been. Four to be exact.

America feels as if he's the only one who's noticed the change. He's not entirely sure why it's  _only_  him, but has a feeling it might have something do to with the fact that him and Russia had been something of bitter enemies for the better part of the current century. Then suddenly, after the Berlin Wall fell, the borders in Hungary were cut down, and over all the Soviet Union collapsed…Russia just seemed to…stop talking.

Of course, at first that wasn't true. America distinctly remembered a particular day when Russia tried to initiate a conversation with his sister, Ukraine. The poor woman looked so frightened and terrified of her own _brother_. She hardly stammered out an excuse for not wanting to talk with him before she took off, leaving Russia standing there looking confused and, quite honestly, hurt. America didn't need a degree in reading facial expressions to know what the look on Russia's face had displayed…

After that, Russia simply stopped talking. He didn't even try to initiate some sort of spat with him. As meetings typically went, Russia would take his seat quietly, listen to the presentation in silence, speak only when it was his turn—and even then very haltingly and briefly, his English still wasn't quite good—and then when the meeting ended, he would pack up his things and leave without a single word.

It's quite dreary in America's opinion. Very boring and not exciting at all. Even Canada, who simply just likes to keep to himself most times, actually goes around and talks with the others on occasion.

But, and here, America chides himself for forgetting this detail, Russia had most of Eastern Europe  _afraid_  of him. Even the countries he hadn't had control over found him intimidating.

America stares silently at the slouched figure of Russia. The violet-eyed man has his head angled down, large nose pointed toward the table as he simply—what America assumes—ignores the lecture Germany is giving to some of the more unruly nations. His thick, stubby fingers are pulling at the frayed ends of his scarf, almost as if he's nervous.

Nervous. Scared. Angry. Really it's a little difficult to tell. America doesn't know Russia that well. He just knows when the man gets angry and what sets him off in the first place. Or at least that's all America ever cared to learn. Watching him now, he feels rather guilty for not trying to learn more about him.

But, there was a very good reason as to  _why_. There's still a rather large arsenal of W.M.D.'s to back it.

"Hey," comes a soft voice to America's right. He doesn't have to look to know who it is. He turns his head toward Canada before he actually looks at him, gaze still lingering on Russia for the briefest of moments. "Gil was wondering if you wanted to join us after the meeting. We're getting a bite to eat and then heading out to some pub he knows of."

America arches his brows slightly, a bit of a smirk playing on his lips. "I'm not sure that'd be a good idea, Bro. Considering you and mister red-eyes over there are getting a little friendly…"

Canada blushes slightly, but strikes out with a curled fist. "You shut your face, Al. At least I'm getting some." He promptly leans back into his seat, arms folded across his chest as America cackles and rubs his arm.

"Ouch, Bro. That was a low blow." America stifles his chuckles. "Yeah, I'll…oh wait…" He trails off as he looks back at Russia.

"Hm? Are you gonna join us or not?" Canada swivels his head toward America again.

"…Uh…better take a rain check. I've got some plans of my own." Canada simply stares for several moments before he turns back in his seat with a shrug.

"Suit yourself." Canada says simply.

* * *

America's not too sure he likes being such a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy. He deeply regrets denying his brother's invitation to go drinking with him and Prussia, but before America could even think logically, he told him no. And then once the meeting had ended, he marched right up to Russia, who looked just about ready to dash out of the room, and asked him to go out for some drinks.

Not like, go  _out_ , just…a friendly chat. America doesn't date.

"Chto…?" Had been America's initial reply, and America just stood there looking equally as confused as Russia did.

"Bless you." America had finally said after several awkward moments of silence, and then repeated his request. "Drinks, like…coffee or something? I wanted to know if you wanna go with?"

Russia had seemed utterly perplexed, and perhaps a little more surprised than he should have been. "You wish to…have drink with me…?" Russia had responded slowly, accent just as thick as—if not thicker than—America remembered.

"Yes." America had given a nod, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

Russia seemed to have weighed his options. He glanced around the room before his violet gaze settled back down on America. "Da. That would be nice…"

And that was how they ended up here. At a small family owned café that America knew of. Russia has yet to say a word; he's been staring at his cup of black coffee for several minutes now. America has already downed his first and was waiting for the waitress to come back with a refill.

It was just… _awkward_. America wasn't even sure what to say. And he couldn't even remember why it was he had asked Russia to go out for coffee with him in the first place. America keeps expecting Russia to say something creepy like he usually did. Or poke fun at him and start a tussle, like he usually did.

Emphasis on that three letter word 'did'.

Russia simply sits, and idly stirs the spoon brought with his coffee in the dark liquid.

"…Do you put any sugar in your coffee or anything?" America asks lamely, and he's at least granted some sort of movement. Russia flicks his gaze up to America's, but just as quickly looks back down.

"Nyet." He says, and his voice is quiet. Almost softer than Canada's. "I do not drink coffee…"

"Oh…" America can't help but blush from embarrassment. He never thought to ask. He figured everyone drank coffee. Maybe it was just a Communist thing. "We could…uh…get you some tea or something?"

Russia simply shakes his head, raising the cup to his lips. "All is fine." He murmurs before taking a small drink. He doesn't crinkle his nose in distaste, so maybe it's not that he doesn't like it, America hopes. Maybe he just doesn't drink coffee because he just doesn't drink coffee. America did the same thing with Mountain Dew.

"You uh…" America is fumbling for something to say. The spur-of-the-moment streak has long since passed and he honestly has no idea what to do anymore. He doesn't know anything about the man in front of him. Except, of course, that he doesn't particularly have much of a taste for coffee. He decides to start up on the most obvious of things. "You don't talk much anymore, do you?"

Russia is looking at him again, and America can't help but catch the dip in the man's brow, as if he's confused or sad. America can't really tell which this time. The waitress has returned and she sets down America's steaming cup of coffee. "Nyet. I suppose that I do not…" Russia watches idly as the woman walks off, and then as America dumps three packets of sugar and two Half & Half's into his coffee. "I really have no reason to."

America looks up from his coffee. "What do you mean?"

"No one wishes to speak with me anymore." Russia states almost too calmly. The dip in his brow is gone, and his expression is just as vacant as before.

"Why?" America asks, and kind of regrets that because he already knows the answer.

Russia, thankfully, doesn't say anything. His gaze flickers back down to his own coffee that he continues to stir despite there not being any sugar or creamer in it. The two nations lapse into silence, for quite some time. Awkward silence on America's part. He's fairly certain Russia is used to this type of quiet by now.

"You've changed." America suddenly says after he's halfway through his second cup of coffee. Russia has yet to take another drink of his first. "A lot."

The spoon stops stirring and Russia looks up almost sadly; his lips quirk up at the edges in the slightest manner. "Da," He says, and America can't help but shiver. "More than you can imagine…" He sets the spoon down, lifting the cup of lukewarm coffee up to his lips. When he sets it back down, his gaze is on the window that they're sitting next to, idly watching the passers-by outside. "I find it sad," Russia continues, "That nobody else seems to think such except for you."

Sad, America thinks, and incredibly lonely.

* * *

The little chat didn't last much longer than that. Russia had excused himself, setting down a few bills on the table to pay for his half of the drink, despite it having hardly been touched.

Now America is sitting all by himself, staring at his pale coffee enlaced with sugar and milk, and then at Russia's which has long since gone cold. It looks pitch black in the dim café lighting.

America sighs, and wonders if maybe it would have been a better idea to go drinking with Canada and Prussia, but something in his brain or chest or gut tells him that this was a good thing to do. Russia had just looked so _lonely_  at the meetings. He had been for  _years_. And America just could not stand there and watch somebody mope around. Heroes don't leave people to mope. Heroes make people feel better. Right? They make people feel safe…

Maybe Russia just didn't feel safe anymore. He wasn't the superpower he had been ten years ago. He practically ran the entire eastern hemisphere until the Eastern Bloc started to break away. Having all of that taken away must have left him feeling utterly exposed and weak.

America sighs and brings the cup to his lips, taking long drinks of the sweet-yet-bitter liquid. His thoughts continued to drift back to the image of Russia with that quaint little smile on his face. No, no, America frowns. Not quaint. Far from quaint. Sad? No, wrong again.

Bitter, America decides. That was most definitely a bitter smile on Russia's face. But part of him wants to relate it more to the coffee he's drinking.

Bitter, yes. But also sweet…

America thinks that maybe the small stop for coffee might have actually been a good idea.

* * *

Canada is nursing a sore head at the meeting the next day. America is almost positive there are some other sore parts as well, but prefers not to think about it. Especially when it involves Prussia—don't get him wrong, Prussia was cool. But it was still  _Prussia_.

America is slumped over the meeting table, idly rolling the wadded up hamburger wrapper between his hands. Occasionally it would roll past his arm-barrier and America would lurch out to snatch it before it disappeared into another nation's lap or underneath the table.

"I went and had coffee with Russia yesterday." America says nonchalantly, and Canada actually lifts his head from the table to squint over at him.

"What?" His voice is groggy, and he sounds as if he hasn't entirely woken up yet. Which is highly possible.

"Coffee. Yesterday. Russia. Me." America explains, tucking the wrapper between the folds of his fingers as he looks over at his brother. Canada is frowning, looking as if America has spoken another language entirely.

"But I thought you hated him…?" He rasps out, pressing his head back against the cool wood of the table. "I realize it's been four years since the cold war actually ended, but…really? That soon…?"

America shrugs and leans back in his seat, trying to piece together the fast-food restaurant chain's logo from the crumpled bits of paper visible on the outside of his make-shift ball. "He seems kinda…quiet. Not like he used to be."

"For a reason, Al…"

"I know that!" America tosses the paper ball at Canada. It bounces off of his head and back onto the table. "I mean…he doesn't seem like he used to be. He's not really creepy any more…sorta."

"…for a  _reason_ , Al…" Canada repeats, and drags himself into an upright position. He has his eyes clamped shut to the bright lights overhead. "He lost his entire empire. Think of how Arthur felt after he lost his."

America gives a light hum.

"He's probably just lonely."

America tilts his head toward Canada. "Aren't you two buddies?" He asks, blatantly ignoring England's presentation. Canada honestly doesn't seem that into the meeting either, but, in Canada's own words, that was "for a reason."

"Mm. We kind of stopped talking a while ago. I didn't quite agree with how he…uh…handled certain things…" Canada rubs at his temples. His glasses are resting on the table above his notes. "I just never thought to start talking to him again, y'know?" He lowers his hands, staring blearily over at America. His blue-violet gaze is slightly blood-shot and he looks exhausted.

"Oh…" America switches his gaze over to Russia. He's sitting just like the day before, only this time he seems to have actually taken an interest in the presentation. His fingers are still fiddling with the ends of his scarf though. "It's weird seeing him like this…"

"Hmm…"

"He doesn't seem anything like he used to be."

"Guess not…"

America frowns and rests his cheek on his hand. He remembers yesterday, how he thought about Russia feeling unsafe and how a Hero was supposed to help make people feel protected. After a few brief moments of thought, he finally comes to a conclusion.

"Matt, I'm gonna make him smile again."

"Hmm- what?" Canada jerks awake. He had started to doze off.

"He hasn't smiled in forever. I mean like,  _actually_  smiled. Not that creepy thing he used to do as the Soviet Union."

"Leer?" Canada offers with a yawn, but America isn't listening. He's suddenly grinning and fidgeting in his seat.

"That's it!" He breaths out, and nods definitively. "I'm gonna make Russia actually smile for once. No more Mister Debby Downer." Another definitive nod.

When America turns back toward Canada, the other nation has already fallen asleep slouched in his chair.

* * *

"Do you often eat at such pace?"

America pauses mid-bite, and looks over questioningly at Russia. The two are seated in a local fast-food restaurant. Russia has nothing but a small serving of fries in front of him—he wasn't entirely sure what was actually served here, but he recognized french-fries at least so he ordered that—whereas America has, well, _had_  two hamburgers and a large fries. The first one has already been devoured, along with half of the fries.

"Uh…yeah?" America replies, as if it's the most normal thing on earth to inhale food at such a speed. Russia seems utterly perplexed, as if he can't comprehend any of it, but decides he'd rather not know how America is able to accomplish such a feat. Instead he turns his attention back to the dwindling serving of French-fries.

It's the second to last day of the World Meeting Summit. Two days after America had declared that he was going to make Russia smile. Russia is still just as quiet as before, but he at least seems a little more comfortable with America. That's a plus in the Blonde's book.

"So what's with that scarf anyway?" America suddenly asks, mouth full of food. Russia's nose crinkles slightly and he keeps his gaze down, idly pressing a French-fry between his fingers.

"It was gift." He replies. "From Sestra."

America sniffs and takes a large swig of his soda. "Sesta? Who's Sesta?"

Russia hesitatingly looks back up at America. To his relief, America doesn't have his face stuffed in an unbecoming manner. "Sestra." He corrects. "It means 'Sister'. Ye-…" Russia suddenly pauses, looking back down at his food as if he's suddenly forgotten her name. "Ukraine," He finally says after several long moments. America can't help but frown slightly, unsure of whether he's using his sister's formal name simply because America wasn't family, or because of other reasons. "She made it for me long ago." Russia gently reaches up to touch the frayed ends with his stubby fingers, but just as quickly lowers them. He doesn't look like he wants to talk anymore, and resumes the silent, vacant expression that he so often wore.

But then he looks back up at America. "What about your jacket?" He asks, starting to smush another French-fry between his thumb and forefinger. The remains of the one before are left for all to see on the napkin. America can't help but stare at that rather curiously. But he quickly looks up at Russia as well, a bright grin spreading across his face.

"World War Two," He sniffs proudly. "I was a fighter pilot on occasion. It used to be standard issue, but I made a few adjustments." He motions to the golden star lain atop a white circle, and then the airplane on his left arm. "I didn't get the fifty on there until later, of course." He gives a nod, leaning back in his seat as he finishes off his second burger.

"You do not wear it as often." Russia comments, and America can't help but be a little surprised.

"Well, yeah, I mean. The thing is almost…well it's over fifty years old, y'know?" America lets out a laugh. "I've had to get it fixed in several places. Sleeves mostly. They get snagged on things sometimes." He shrugs as Russia lets out a soft hum of understanding.

"It is very precious to you?" Russia asks, and America actually falls quiet for a bit.

America looks down at the jacket, idly brushing his fingers over the fur lapels. "Yeah," He finally says after several long moments. "I went through the entire war with this thing. And then some." America laughs lightly, smile still wide. "I don't know what I'd do without it." His baby-blue gaze watches as Russia adjusts his scarf, pulling it a bit higher up to cover his chin.

"I understand," Russia says. "I think…if anything happened to this scarf…"

Russia trails off, and looks off to the side. He seems unwilling to even think about it.

"You'd feel empty, right?" America is leaning forward again, arms folded on top of the table. Russia is still silent. "I know what you mean. I feel off on the days I don't wear it, but I don't want it to get ruined, y'know?"

Russia glances down at the frayed ends of his scarf. At the ruined handiwork.

America catches the shift, and tilts his head a bit. "If you took it to a tailor's I'm sure they could fix it for you." He offers, but Russia immediately shakes his head.

"Nyet." He's clutching the scarf between his hands, almost protectively. "Nyet, I could never."

"Well why not?"

"It would not be the same." Russia replies quietly.

"Why don't you just ask Ukraine to fix it for you?"

America feels as if he said something wrong. Russia is silent again, and he refuses to meet America's gaze. America shifts slightly the longer the silence lasts.

"Russi—"

"She will not speak with me." Russia murmurs, gaze still off to the side. "No one will…"

America sort of regrets eating those burgers so fast. He feels queasy,  _guilty_ for making Russia upset all of a sudden.

"It is not your fault," Russia assures, seeing the look on America's face. His lips twitch up again in that bittersweet smile from before. "Nyet. It is all mine."

No it's not, America wants to say. If they realized you aren't anything like you used to be, they'd realize they're treating you wrong. It's  _their_  fault.

America stays quiet though. He can't find words to speak for some reason.

"This was nice." Russia suddenly says, and starts to stand. "I appreciate this very much, America." He pulls out his wallet to pay America back for his half, but America waves a hand and shakes his head no.

"It's all on me. Fries aren't that expensive anyway." America explains as he rolls up his hamburger wrappers. Russia looks as if he doesn't know what to do now, but eventually tucks his wallet away in the back pocket of his pants.

"Spasibo."

"Bless you."

Russia gives him a funny look, but says nothing. He merely dips his head toward America before turning to leave the store.

America lets out a sigh as his gaze slides back to the smushed French-fries on Russia's side of the table. He feels as if his little mission of sorts has started off with some drawbacks.

* * *

"You were staring at me the entire meeting."

It's rather funny, America thinks, that all it takes is two awkward conversations at some food store for Russia to finally initiate a conversation.

But then again, it might simply be that Russia was doing such because America did sort of just  _stare_  at him the entire meeting.

"Uh…" America fumbles for an excuse, but he can't think of anything. Partly because it's just now that he's noticing how much Russia towers over him. Over everybody really. America is only five foot nine, but Russia seems to be a full six feet!

"Is there something you wish to discuss?" Russia has one hand curled around the handle of his briefcase, the other is—you guessed it—fiddling with his scarf. "Or did you want to—"

"You never smile!" America blurts out. He's known to blurt, and he's starting to find that a very awful habit. The last time he said something without really thinking, Russia had gotten upset and left. Russia at least doesn't seem like he's going to leave. He simply frowns a bit, head tilting as he scrutinizes the blonde.

"…Nyet…" Russia says after a while. "I…suppose I do not…"

America at least knows not to ask why. It seems anytime he wants to, the answer turns out to be very depressing and upsets Russia.

Instead he just stares again. Russia doesn't seem to like that, and shifts uncomfortably.

"Why are you looking at me like that…?"

"Like what?"

"Unblinkingly…"

America doesn't shift his gaze at all. Instead it seems to grow more intense and Russia actually takes a step back. That's a first. Russia never backs down from anything.

"We're going out for food." America finally states.

"Again?" Russia looks incredulous, but it's better than that vacant expression he's worn throughout the entire summit.

"Again." America says flatly, and grabs onto Russia's wrist. The elder of the two hardly has time to process what's going on before he is dragged off by an iron grip. America doesn't really seem to know his own strength, but Russia can't bring himself to tell America this.

* * *

It's a bit fancier this time. No fast food, no café. Just a simple restaurant with exquisite food at a cheap price. Their orders have already been placed, and America looks as if he's about to eat the table itself with how much he ogles all the other patron's dishes.

"You have been here before?" Russia asks, to which America shakes his head.

"Nah. I'm not really one for restaurants. Too long of a wait most times." America's baby-blue gaze shifts over to Russia. "Listen," He suddenly says, and Russia obediently does so. "I'm serious about this whole 'you don't smile anymore' thing. It's really depressing."

"Oh…Izvinitye…"

"…Gesundheit…" America waves a hand slightly at Russia's baffled expression as he leans back. "I really don't know anything about you, Russki." He sniffs a bit, hands folded on top of the table. "So I can't really figure anything out to make you smile. I mean, I could probably tell some jokes but I dunno if you would understand them. Sometimes they don't translate well, y'know?" Russia gives a hesitant nod. "So, first things first, I'm gonna ask some questions." America points to himself, a large smile sweeping across his face. "And you," Here, he points at Russia; he flinches away slightly. Pointing wasn't polite in Russia's book. "are going to answer them."

"…What kind of questions…?" Russia asks, to which America just shrugs.

"Anything really. Like…what's your favourite type of music?"

It was Russia's turn to stare now. "Type…?" He echoes.

"Yeah, y'know? Genre? There's pop, rock, country. I'm kinda for hip-hop, rap, and more upbeat music myself. So…" America trails off, hoping Russia would pick up.

"I suppose…classical…" The large nation fidgets a bit in his chair. "Da. Classical. Instrumental music and…and Opera…" Russia glances down toward the silverware set out neatly in front of them. "My nation is known for such things. So it is only natural that I favour them."

"Classy," America says tersely, pursing his lips. "Any favourite movies?" Russia shakes his head. "Okay then. Broadway shows?" America leans forward again, looking positively too energetic. "I  _love_  Broadway! The musicals they put up on there? Love 'em. Every single one." He looks proud almost, but it's likely because Broadway was strictly American. Yes, other nations likely had their own musicals, but it was  _Broadway_.

"Ballet." Russia finally says when America seems to calm down slightly. "I enjoy ballet."

Very classy kinda guy, America thinks. "I suppose you also like reading poetry and sonnets and stuff, yeah?"

Russia is quiet for a few moments before he gives a nod and a soft "da."

America decides it's high time to move onto a better topic. He was never really one for poetry or ballet. "What about hobbies?"

To which Russia quickly replies, "Stargazing."

America swears he felt his heart skip a beat. But it's difficult to tell if it was because of the food finally being placed in front of them, or the fact that he actually found something in common with the large man across from him.

"Dude…" America is wide eyed, mouth agape. "No way…"

Well it makes sense, considering they were both the leading nations in Space exploration. America had NASA and Russia had the CCCP. Well, now it was the RKA, but that was beside the point.

"Dude?" Russia repeats, and America tries not to laugh at how absurdly ridiculous it sounds coming from Russia of all people.

"Stargazing. You like stargazing."

"Of course," Russia is glancing down at his food, unsure if it would be polite to start eating when America is staring and-

And rambling, as it turns out. America suddenly shoots off on a tangent of nothing but stars and super nova's and black holes and so on and so forth. America, as it turns out, is an avid stargazer and loves reading books or learning about space and the cosmos. Russia is pleasantly surprised with the knowledge spewing from America's lips, and the lightest of smiles crosses his features.

America suddenly stops talking, and he's grinning from ear to ear. "You smiled," He stated, looking as if he were a child on Christmas morning.

Russia decides to play ignorant. "Chto?" He says, picking up his fork because he would really rather not let his food go cold this time.

America rolls his eyes and does the same. "You really need to get that cold checked, Dude."

* * *

The first time America and Russia tried to go stargazing together, it rained. It was several weeks after the World Summit when Russia ( Russia! America couldn't believe it! ) had invited him over. "The skies in Russia are very clear. No light pollution." He had explained. America didn't need to be told twice before he hopped on a flight over to his former enemies homeland.

It was September. So the chill had yet to come in, but the cold front certainly made it feel quite a bit cooler than it was.

"I must apologize," Russia said, looking highly disheartened as he looked outside his living room window. "I did not think the weather would…" He trails off, but America has already shrugged it off.

"No biggie. We'll just do it tomorrow night."

Russia gives a slight nod, and returns his attention to the card game America is trying to show him. "What next?" He asks, violet gaze sweeping over the designs on the back of his cards.

"Well basically, we keep putting cards down until we find a match." America sets one down, it's an Ace of hearts, and Russia follows suit. He comes up short with a three of spades. "The person who has the higher card—which is me—gets the cards." To which America swiftly grabs the two and adds them to his deck.

"I see…" Russia murmurs, and lays down another. America does so too. They both end up putting down fives.

"Awesome!" America throws his hands up, careful not to accidently fling his cards everywhere. "Okay, now put three cards face down, like this." Russia watches intently as America does so, and then follows suit. "And then it's just like before. Whoever puts the highest card down gets the rest. Ready?"

Russia nods.

"Go!" They both set down their cards, and as it turns out, Russia lucks out barely. He has an eight of spades while America has a seven of diamonds.

"Aw, rats." America huffs, and watches as Russia dutifully collects his cards. "Make sense?"

"Da, it seems simple enough." Russia taps his new cards into order before adding them to the bottom of his deck. "You play many card games?"

America nods. "Definitely! Gambling's pretty big over on my side of the world. Got a whole city that runs off the profit. Las Vegas." America chuckles and shakes his head. "I'd love to see what your reaction would be if you ever visited Las Vegas. You seem pretty chill and uh…conservative, y'know?" American can only guess really. They exchanged a few e-mails over the weeks after the meeting, but as it turned out, Russia wasn't very well acquainted with technology. It still blew America's mind that Russia sent out mail through the post.

 _Everyone_  used the internet nowadays!

Russia frowns slightly, but America doesn't go on to explain. He sets his card down. Russia follows suit, and can't help but smile lightly at the disgruntled look on America's face when he takes his card (plus America's) back.

"How long have you been into stargazing?" America asks, and watches as Russia seems to deliberate on how to answer. He's a little bit slower at placing his next card down.

"Ever since I was little…" Russia finally replies, and the slight uplift of his lips is a bit more fond than before. "Back before electricity. Long before, actually. I used to look up and wonder what the little lights in the sky were." America placed his card down, giving a triumphant grin as he claimed his prize. "I used to think it was snow that had frozen into the sky. Quite silly now that I think of it…"

"I used to think they were fireflies." America comments, lips pursed as he places the next card down. "I used to feel so sorry for the little bugs, but when I found out it was actually burning gas millions of miles away? Man, you couldn't imagine how relieved I was!"

America swears he hears a soft chuckle, but by the time he looks up at Russia, the noise has stopped.

"Americ—"

"You can call me Alfred."

Russia blinks, violet gaze wide as he stares at the blonde. America hadn't been looking up at him at first, but when the silence lingers, his gaze finally slides over to Russia's. "Alfred," He says again.

Russia's lips twitch, but he seems unsure of himself. After several moments, he finally tries it out. "Ohlfryet…" It was rather awkward to say. Russia had always had trouble with foreign names. America's was no exception. "O…Ohl…ah…" He shakes his head slightly, murmuring an apology.

America just laughs. "C'mon, it's not that hard. Say it with me. Al,"

Russia repeats, with slight difficulty, "A-…Awl…"

"Al," America says again.

"Al." America sits up a bit straighter, showing his approval.

"Now 'Fred'. Like Freddie Jones from Scooby-doo or Freddie Crugar." With the look Russia is giving him, America can only assume that he hasn't heard of any of those characters. But he doesn't dwell on it long.

"Fryet." His R rolls, and America can't help but chuckle at how regal it sounds. "Al…frye…fryet." Russia smiles. "Alfryet. Da. Much easier now." But it still comes out awkwardly with his accent.

America leans forward a bit, propping his elbow up on his knee, and then his chin in his hand. He's grinning from ear to ear, obviously amused with Russia's rather lame pronunciation. It doesn't really do America's name any justice to be honest. "You were askin' me something?"

"Oh, yes." Russia looks down at his cards, and then the single solitary one by itself on the floor. He flicks one of his own next to it. America has won again. "Why is it…that you are not afraid of me…?"

America doesn't say anything for some time. He knows the longer he remains silent, the more Russia will think that America actually is scared of him. But that's far from the truth. "Because…" America starts, but he can't think of anything to go after it. His gaze shifts up from his cards to Russia, and he's suddenly reminded of a lost puppy with the expression Russia has on his face.

A lost poppy yearning for protection. For someone to care for it.

"Because we're not enemies anymore." America finally says. And it's astonishingly true. Russia has not once done anything to upset America. He's done quite the opposite. Anytime Russia has felt like America would be offended, he would apologize. "We don't hate each other anymore." America shrugs a bit, but misses the confused look on Russia's face.

"Hate?"

"Well yeah. We were practically at each other's throats the past forty years." Russia looks distressed, and it's impossible for even America to not notice. "What is it?"

"I never hated you."

America is quiet, and feels slightly offended because certainly forty plus years of fighting entails hatred. "Never?" America arches an eyebrow, and Russia seems to catch on with what he's feeling. The cards are dropped as he shakes his head.

"Nyet! Never! Quite the contrary, I was…well I was rather—"

"Well you certainly weren't smitten,"

"Jealous. I was…jealous…" Russia looks embarrassed, and America just looks confused. The larger nation went on to explain. "America, you are much younger than I am. In less than two hundred years after gaining your independence, you became world superpower." America sits back slightly, deck still in his hands as he listens. "I spent much of my years isolated from the rest of the world. I was not aware of western culture until the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries…"

Russia is staring down into his lap, and he looks scared almost. He's terrified that I'll get up and leave, America realizes. "I never became a world power until much later. And even then, it was all based off of lies and treachery. I never enjoyed it. It was very bittersweet but…but more bitter and ugly than anything else. I was jealous of how easily you seemed to obtain it. My country has always been riddled with corruption…I had great monarchies, but not influence. And when I finally had that influence, it…" Russia trails off, leaving America to piece the rest together.

It scared everyone off, America figures. Russia had been such a terrible force all those years ago. When Lenin had first taken power, Russia had remained much the same except for horribly depressed. It was when Stalin took control that things got out of hand.

America had read plenty of history books, lived through plenty of history itself to know that Stalin wasn't exactly a sane man. And Russia was one of the few unlucky nations that found themselves strictly adherent to their government. America was more tied to his people than anything else, but that was the advantage of a democracy…sort of.

"Oh…" America finally says after what feels like the longest silence either of the two has been through. Russia still isn't looking at him, and America has to guess it's because he's feeling utterly ashamed. "That…makes sense…" He supposes. He never thought of Russia as the jealous type. Especially not now.

"I apologize…" Russia murmurs, and starts collecting the cards he had scattered around rather silently. America can't help but frown and fidget.

"Hey," America reaches out to take Russia's cards. The large nation stares at him slightly wide-eyed, flinching back ever so slightly when their fingers brush.

He's not even used to physical contact, America thinks, feeling increasingly more solemn. He starts to shuffle the cards together. "I'm gonna show you another game. Sound good?"

"Another…?" Russia looks very uncertain, and still very uneasy. America flashes him a grin and holds up the newly shuffled deck.

"This one in called E.R.S."

The look Russia gives him clearly shows his bafflement, but at least the uneasiness is for a completely different reason.

* * *

"Alfryet, you can see rings of Saturn. Look here." Russia steps back from the large telescope, motioning for the younger nation to step forward and have a look. America does, shutting one eye as he peers through the lens. Sure enough, he can see a little white ball with the faintest ring circling around it.

"So cool…" He breaths out, lips pulled up into a wide smile. When he steps back and straightens up, gazing up at the open expanse of nothing but dark blue and little twinkling diamonds, he feels incredibly at ease.

Russia gives a soft hum as he goes back to looking through the telescope. "Do you know the stories behind the constellations?" He asks softly. America has discovered as of late that Russia doesn't seem to like speaking loudly. That or he's simply not used to talking. Either of which are both very possible.

"Can't say I do," America has his hands in his pockets as he watches Russia swivel the telescope around. It's pointed up at the moon, but Russia is no longer peering through it. He's looking back at America now, curiously.

"That is shame," Russia is smiling though, and the action is very warm. "Which would you like to know? I will teach you."

"Teach me?" America chuckles and his lips spread up into a grin. "That sounds promising. Alright, how about…the big dipper! Everybody knows the big dipper."

"Ah," Russia has his lips pursed as he glances up at the skies. When his gaze settles on the constellation, his head tilts a bit. "That would be Callisto."

"Who?"

"Long ago, there was a wood-nymph named Callisto. She was not like other women. Very…ah…" He falters, seeming to be unable to find the right word. "She was a hunter," Russia continues. "And the God Jupiter lusted after her." He pauses, glancing over at America. "You should know that most of these stories are rather…dark in places."

America just sniggers. "I'm a big boy, Russia, Go on." As the violet-eyed nation starts to continue, America lowers himself to the ground, legs stretched out in front of him. Russia remains next to the telescope, idly peering through it every now and then as he speaks.

"Jupiter transformed himself into Callisto's mistress, Diana. Callisto, of course, was deceived, and Jupiter lured her into a comfortable chat before raping her." Russia glances back briefly, watching as America frowns. "Callisto bore a child, Arcas. Juno, the wife of Jupiter grew so furious and jealous that she transformed Callisto into a bear."

"Years later, when Arcas was older, he was out hunting and came across Callisto, but was not aware it was her. Just before he took aim, Jupiter stopped him. Arcas was then transformed into a lesser bear, to join his mother. Juno, who was still terribly jealous, was upset that they were granted such a privilege, and convinced Neptune to forbid them bathing in the sea. This is why Ursa Major and Minor never dip below the horizon line in the northern hemisphere."

Russia glances back at America again to find him staring at him wide eyed. It alarms him slightly, and he can't help but pull away from the telescope. "Alfryet?"

"You really know your stuff. I dunno who all those guys are but that was _cool_!" America isn't lying of course. He had never really studied mythology. It had never peaked his interest but hearing it from Russia? The large nation simply seems to love talking about it, and the way he speaks—although slightly haltingly and heavy with accent—is still very nice to listen to.

"Would you like to hear more?" Russia asks hesitantly, to which America nods his head furiously.

America pats a spot next to him on the grass, and Russia looks at him rather uncertainly before he cautiously makes his way over. When he sits down, America flops onto his back, so Russia only finds it suitable to do the same.

"How about Orion's belt next?" America suggests, and Russia lets out a light laugh.

"Of course," And as Russia begins the story about Orion the hunter and his fatal tale, America looks over to see Russia smiling widely.

* * *

"Ivan."

"Nyet. It is pronounced eevahn."

"Ivan."

America is stony faced as he stares at the Russian across from him. Russia looks a little exasperated, and tries again to get America to pronounce his name correctly. "Eevahn." He says again, to which America quickly responds with:

"Ivan."

With a heavy sigh, Russia's shoulders slump. America is stubborn, and refuses to even  _try_  to say his name correctly. But, Russia remembers, it should be expected. Even England railed on America often for "reducing the English language to nothing but a big scrap pile of redneck rubbish."

America, of course, had always retorted with the fact that "American" was a better and more efficient language than "British", simply because they didn't use strange words like "bugger" and "sod" or refer to things as "bloody" or "bleeding" for no apparent reason.

"Ivan." America says again, and Russia finally admits defeat.

"Good enough," Russia leans back in his chair, scratching idly at his cheek as he watches America grin. Russia, it seems, has started to grow rather fond of that grin. He's begun to grow fond of America as a whole, really, and it surprises him more than anything.

After all, it wasn't but four or five years ago that they had been such bitter enemies.

Perhaps it's because America is so much like a sunflower, Russia thinks. His hair is blonde, and Russia has always been fond of the colour yellow. Sunflowers have always made him feel so comfortable and warm and at ease with everything. America has managed to do that just as easily with his goofy smile. There was also the matter of the baby-blue eyes, always curious and inquisitive. Always very kind and light hearted. They remind Russia of the bright clear skies in the summer, when the chill of winter has thawed and still has months before it sets in again.

"Ivan?"

Russia starts a bit, and blinks confusedly at the blonde. "Da?"

"You're starin'…"

"Oh…" Russia straightens in his seat a bit. "Izvinitye. I was…thinking." America has his chin propped in his hand. He has the lightest frown on his face.

"Bless you," He starts, and Russia has to refrain from rolling his eyes. "Thinking about what?" America finally asks, and Russia feels rather embarrassed. Russia shifts his gaze down, staring at the frayed and rather threadbare scarf.

"It is nothing really," Russia assures rather lamely, and of course America doesn't buy it. With the increasingly intense look directed at him, Russia starts to feel more and more uncomfortable.

"C'mon, Ivan. Spill the beans." America is grinning rather slyly as he leans over the table, both arms now resting on top of it. Russia, however, looks entirely confused.

"Beans?" He repeats, looking back up at America. "I…I do not understand. I have no beans…" Russia glances down, as if to make sure what he said is true.

"No, idiot." America is trying to stifle his laughter, especially when Russia looks back up at him with that utterly confused and puppy-like face of his. "I mean tell me what's on your mind."

When Russia responds with a rather stammered out "You," America stops laughing.

Russia has never seen America blush like that.

"Did I say something wrong…?" Russia asks cautiously when America turns his face away. The blonde waves a hand at him, but Russia has no idea what that's supposed to mean. "I…I was simply wondering…" Here, Russia shifts his gaze down to the drinks set out in front of them. America has a cup of coffee while Russia has settled with a nice hot cup of tea. No sugar or additives unlike America. "Alfryet…why did you bother inviting me to that coffee shop so many weeks ago?"

America looks back at him again, and the blush has decreased. "Uh…" Is all that comes past his lips, and he seems unable to think up a response. "Well…it was…actually kind of spur-of-the-moment, y'know?"

Russia is quiet.

"You just looked really lonely and sad…" America looks down at his coffee. There is still steam wafting up from the cream coloured liquid. "I felt kinda…I dunno…I felt like I had to do something about it, y'know?'

Russia remains silent for quite some time, idly rotating his tea cup between his large stubby fingers. When he feels the silence has dragged out long enough, he tilts his chin up a bit, gaze still lowered. "Spasibo." He says quietly, a soft smile spreading across his lips. America is silent for once as he looks at him. "Spasibo," Russia says again. "for everything. I was incredibly lonely before but…I very much appreciate what you did…"

America looks a little bashful. He raises his coffee cup to his lips, using it to hide his face ever so slightly as he mumbles out an "it was nothing, that's what heroes do, right?"

And then he takes a drink of his bittersweet coffee, looking up to see Russia smiling fondly at him.

* * *

"Ivan! Ivan!" Russia lets out a soft grunt when he feels his entire world start to shake. "Vaaannnyyyaaa! Wake up already, I gotta show you something. You're gonna—ahk! …Christ, Ivan,  _seriously!_ " Russia, upon discovering it was  _America_  shaking him rather violently, has rolled over to pin the younger nation to the mattress. He knows he is heavy, but he also knows America is perfectly capable of tossing him across the room like a pencil if he so wants.

"Tired," Russia mumbles, nuzzling into the newfound warmth. America struggles helplessly beneath him.

"This isn't cool, Ivan! I had a really awesome surprise for you and everything."

"Later, Fredka…" Russia mumbles. When America starts to kick his legs, Russia grunts once more and throws one of his own legs over America's in retaliation.

"Fine. Be a loser. Sleep all day." America huffs, pointedly turning his head away from Russia who has finally cracked a violet eye open to look at him curiously. "Went through all the trouble of talking to your sister and everything but noooooo. Stupid Vanya doesn't wanna get up." America sulks irately, but knows he has won when Russia suddenly shifts.

"You spoke with—"

"Yeup."

"But why on earth would you—"

"That's part of the surprise, Vanya." America turns his face back toward Russia, a sly smile on his face. "Are you awake now?"

"Da," Russia is more than awake, and when America wriggles out from underneath him and starts out the bedroom door, he quickly follows after.

Ukraine is not down there to greet him like he expects, and Russia would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed. What he does find upon getting downstairs, is a moderately sized box shoved in his face. It bumps rather painfully against his nose and he lets out a soft noise of surprise.

"Wh-what is—"

"Open it." America demands, that same sly look on his face. "Open it and tell me you don't love me. I dare you."

"Fredka, that…" is an impossibility, Russia would have gone on to say, but he is interrupted with another harsh thrust of the box. He quickly takes it from America's hands and pulls it open.

What he sees is fabric.

The same light pink fabric of  _his_  scarf, but much fluffier and less threadbare and not frayed. It's new.

"She said that your scarf was too old to mend, so I asked her to make a new one for you." America explains as he tugs it out of the box. Russia watches as the cloth unfurls to its full length, and then as America starts to drape it over his shoulders and around his neck. "I know it's probably not the same since it hasn't been through as much as the old one…but…I figured you'd like it just as well." America gives a slight shrug, stepping back to admire the brand new scarf.

Russia is speechless.

"She also says sorry," America's expression is a bit more solemn, but there's still a light smile on his lips. "She knows that she's upset you with running away and stuff, but really it's her boss's fault she's not allowed to talk to you." America reaches out to grab a hold of the end of Russia's brand new scarf, tugging him forward ever so slightly.

"F…Fredka…" Russia feels overwhelmed. Because America has done something he never would have expected, because the scarf around his neck is so much warmer and smells just like his elder sister. Russia honestly can't recall a time in which anybody had treated him this nicely. Not since America entered the picture.

The smile on Russia's face is bittersweet again, but America likes it just the same. He shuffles forward a bit, leaning up on the balls of his feet to place a light kiss on Russia's cheek. "She misses you too, Vanya. I hope you realize that."

When America pulls away, he's smirking again. "Now tell me you don't love me. I know you can't do it."

Russia is pulling the scarf up to his nose, inhaling the familiar scent. "Nyet, Fredka…" He sighs contentedly, lowering the scarf before he pulls America into a hug. "Ya tebya lyublyu, mohy Fredka."

America can't help but let out a snort as he returns the sentiment and wraps his arms around Russia's neck. "Bless you," He says rather non-chalantly, and they both start to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Translations:**
> 
> Chto – What  
> Izvinitye – Sorry  
> Spasibo – Thank you  
> Ya tebya lyubyu, mohy Fredka – I love you, my Fredka


End file.
